


Looking Through the Lens

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Camboy Marco, Dirty Talk, Dystopia, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sex Work, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, kink positive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:44:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean is ready to live the good life in the city after his hard work at university, set with a sweet apartment and lucrative one year contract-to-hire job. But nothing can cure loneliness except company, and it's only when Jean logs onto SinaKinkLink.com in desperation one night, that everything starts to change. </p><p>Or, the one where Marco is a camboy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So... yeah! This came out of nowhere, but I wanted to post it NOW so I don't lose momentum. 
> 
> Chapter One is more like a prologue/teaser for this multi-chapter, and I hope it piques your interest! I've got plans...

“Mr. Kirschstein?”

Jean looks up, blinking in the low light of the restaurant, jostling the table as he’s startled out of his thoughts. The candle in the center flickers, and he gives a tired smirk.

“Sorry,” he says with a slight shrug, leaning on one elbow and poking at his sushi indifferently. “Long first day.”

“I asked if your new apartment sufficient?” Marlowe inquires, raising a stern eyebrow.

Jean nimbly rearranges the chopsticks in his fingers and grabs a piece, delivering it to his mouth without really tasting it.

“Yeah,” he replies with a nod. “It’s big.”

“Not what you were expecting?” Marlowe asks, leaning back in his seat with crossed arms as he studies Jean.

Marlowe—a fellow alum from Sina U—had been tasked with getting Jean set up with everything in his new position in the company.

“I wasn’t expecting anything special,” Jean replies with a slight shrug, not wanting to give away too much information. He puts down his chopsticks to meet Marlowe eye for eye, staring him down. 

Neither of them speak for a few beats of awkward silence, until Jean just shrugs a little to diffuse the tension. “It’s fine.”

Marlowe regards him for another moment unwaveringly, until apparently giving up to pick at his own sushi.

Marlowe Sand is the most miserable human being Jean thinks he’s ever had the misfortune of meeting, and he’s personally relieved that most of his own work will be done from home.

“Sushi’s good,” Jean remarks idly, taking another indifferent bite. “It’s on the company, I guess?”

Marlowe looks up sharply just as he’s finally about to take a bite of his own dinner, and Jean fights the urge to grin. Needling uptight assholes is his specialty.

“Please remember, Mr. Kirschstein,” Marlowe replies curtly, even though his face is slowly turning scarlet, “that you’re on a one year, trial contract that will need to be renewed.”

Jean abandons his self-satisfied smirk with a mild frown, but takes another bite of his sushi nonetheless, as if in protest.

They eat the rest of their dinner in silence, the candlelight flickering as servers and patrons pass their table. Jean’s used to awkward silences, though, and he’s perfectly content to focus on his food, rather than his dyspeptic dinner companion.

“Will that be all?” the server who’s spontaneously appeared chirps.

Jean looks to see a pretty girl with a high ponytail and bright eyes. He nods, not quite meeting her eyes, as she smiles at him.

“Please charge the entire check to this card,” Marlowe instructs, handing the girl whose nametag reads ‘Sasha’ a credit card. 

She nods, and departs with one dirty plate and the card.

“You owe me dinner,” Marlowe states in a curt voice, setting his napkin on the white linen tablecloth and folding it neatly, “since this was _not_ charged to the company. Please feel free to have lunch sent to my office on Monday, Mr. Kirschstein.”

Sasha returns with the check for Marlowe to sign—sure enough, Jean catches sight of the inscribed name, and it’s definitely a personal credit card—and he signs with a flourish.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Marlowe says flatly as he pushes his chair out and shoots Jean a disdainful look. “I’m sure I’ll see you at the teleconference Monday morning. Good night.”

He leaves without another word, and Jean finds himself caught in the din of conversations of which he’s not involved.

Usually, he doesn’t mind being alone. It’s something he’s gotten used to over the years, and in some way, now prefers. But sitting here in a stiff new suit, staring at the empty plate of the first person he’s had dinner with in months—who also happens to be his stiff, stick-up-the-ass coworker (and technical superior)—has made him suddenly aware that he only has half a sushi roll for company.

“Your friend ditched you?” comes a surprised voice.

Jean jerks his head up in surprise, and then frowns at their server.

“He’s not my friend,” he mutters, plucking his own napkin from his lap and depositing it on the table. “He’s an asshole.”

“Oh!” Sasha squeaks, cringing.

She picks up the signed check and casts a look at it; the expression on her face goes from being dismayed to one of obvious agreement, though she doesn’t say as much.

“The cheap asshole,” Jean grumbles. “How much of a tip did he leave?”

“I-it’s okay,” Sasha says, backing up and shaking her head. 

Jean sighs in exasperation with a roll of his eyes. “How much?”

She shakes her head again, nervously chewing her lower lip with big eyes.

He gets up from his chair, sliding it noisily out from the table, and closes the distance between them to snatch the bill out of her hand. A few other patrons look up in surprise from their dinners, their faces shadowed in the flickering candlelight, but Jean pretends not to notice.

“Ten percent? Seriously?” he hisses. “We’re in Sina, not fucking Trost.”

Sasha is just staring at him in mortification, and he snaps his mouth shut, suddenly aware that he’s making a scene.

“Um,” he says apologetically, pulling Sasha toward the back so people stop staring at them, “sorry about that. I’m, uh... new here.”

Sasha’s eyes narrow, and she hits him in the shoulder with her order pad once they’re near the kitchen and out of anyone’s line of sight.

“Thanks a lot!” she cries, looking genuinely upset. “Now everyone’s going to think I’m greedy and not tip me at all.”

“I’m sorry,” Jean repeats, feeling genuinely sorry.

“Take me out for a drink, then,” she says suddenly, poking him in the shoulder. “I’m off in five minutes.”

Jean’s mouth snaps shut and he flushes.

“Uh...”

“Cute!” she cries, grinning, all good humor and smiles again. “You’re shy! Wait, you like girls, right?”

He scowls and the blush intensifies, but before he can open his mouth, she pats him on the shoulder. 

“I mean, whatever. You’re just cute. So give me five minutes, okay? You look like you could use a friend, anyway, hanging around with _that_ guy.” She crinkles her nose.

“I—he—I told you that I didn’t—” Jean sputters, shaking his head helplessly. He huffs and takes two steps backward. “Who _are_ you?” he finally exclaims.

She holds out her hand, still smiling with a friendly glint in her eye. “Sasha Braus, and I’m an outsider like you in this city. Let’s hang out.”

Jean isn’t sure what just happened, but he finds himself shaking her hand, staring with wide eyes.

Three margaritas, two shooters, and one cab ride later, they’re lying in Jean’s brand new bed in his unpacked, vast apartment under sheets he hasn’t even slept in yet.

“So,” she says, sheets pulled right up to her neck as she lies stiffly on her back, “I guess _just_ friends is a better bet?”

Jean groans, rolling onto his stomach and pulling a pillow over his head, tasting the alcohol still on his breath.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice muffled from under the pillow.

He thought he might be able to turn over a new leaf here—be the confident, successful person all the top classmen came back as at the school’s annual holiday party.

However, as he lies in bed next to a stranger—and apparently, now his only friend in Sina—with the same feeling of nauseating terror he always has, and can only admit to in the dark, he wonders who he’ll become in this vast, lonely metropolis.


	2. A View from the Top

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The view from the top isn't as great as Jean first thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it! I actually got chapter two out! This is gearing up to be a big one for me, so I hope you like it!
> 
> Also, a huge thanks to tumblr users somebodyslight, allhailcookies, and mjolklizard (Dylo) for reading this a few times and giving me invaluable input. <3 You guys are the best.

Jean is mind-numbingly bored as the rain pats on the window. The click-clack of computer keys as he finishes his latest assignment is lulling him to sleep, and he’s starting to wonder why he ever thought computer programming would an exciting occupation.

Well, besides the guaranteed and lucrative job that would undoubtedly await him after university, of course.

He takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee and keeps typing, ignoring the draft of the huge, still-mostly-empty apartment.

It’s been four weeks since he arrived in Sina, three weeks since his gaffe in bed, and two days since he’s seen anyone other than the pizza delivery guy. And Marlowe’s ugly mug on Skype.

Right on cue, Jean hears the blip of an incoming call on Skype; he has half a mind to ignore it, but knows he can’t.

“Kirschstein,” comes Marlowe’s sour voice over the computer speaker; at least it’s not a video call. “Are you done yet?”

Jean muffles his sigh and rolls his eyes, typing out the last line of code.

“I’ll Dropbox it.”

There’s some shuffling, and a strange giggle that Jean knows can’t belong to Marlowe.

“Jeeeannn,” sings a voice.

Hitch.

“Hi, Hitch,” Jean replies, cringing.

“Oh, Jean!” her voice buzzes through Jean’s laptop speaker. “You recognize the sound of my voice... are you secretly in love with me?”

Jean didn’t know it was possible to purr and stalk at the same time, but apparently it is.

He also doesn’t appreciate the blush that immediately heats his face, and he scowls.

“I’m hanging up.” He stands up to stretch stiff arms over his head and roll his neck, his feet cold against the bare, hardwood floor. He has to talk to someone about getting the heater properly working. 

“Wait,” comes Hitch’s voice. Jean looks over at the computer cautiously where it’s sitting on the fancy glass desk (not his selection), still scowling.

There’s some more shuffling, and he can hear Marlowe grumbling in a stern voice away from the mic, undoubtedly at Hitch.

“Kirschstein? There’s a company event. You are invited. Goodbye.”

There’s the distinct sound of a chair being pushed away and Marlowe’s startled voice, and then Hitch is closer to the mic.

“Mm, Jean, you’re so cute. Why don’t you come?”

“Uggh,” Jean groans out loud, “what is with you?”

“I’m only be honest,” she simpers. “I’d say let’s vid chat, but I’m sure you’re blushing, aren’t you? You sweet thing?”

Hitch legitimately scares Jean on an uncanny level; possibly because she cares absolutely nothing for other people’s opinions of her.

“Fuck off,” he ventures. At least Hitch won’t write him up.

“Ooh, such crude language. Are you secretly a bad boy?”

“What do you _want?_ ” Jean groans, holding his head. “I have to go take a shower. I worked most of the night to get this project out on time, no thanks to you two.”

He hears Hitch laughing, more distant again, and he can just picture the two of them—Hitch standing there with her ash-blonde hair, grinning with those deceptively soft eyes, and Marlowe probably sitting stick straight and about to burst a blood vessel in his head.

“So sassy,” Hitch teases, but this time, Jean doesn’t take the bait. “What are you doing this weekend?”

Jean has a lot going on this weekend, such as staring out the window, texting Sasha Braus about the latest Netflix release, and reminding himself (repeatedly) that staying in Trost to work a minimum wage job would have been a terrible idea.

“I’m busy,” he grunts.

Hitch gives a tinkly laugh, and he can hear even Marlowe snort distantly.

“Uh huh,” she says simply. “Well, you should come out tonight. It’s an open bar. Bring your girlfriend, if you have one.”

It’s the best opening he’s had to take Hitch off-guard.

“Or boyfriend.”

“Ooh!” she squeals. “You have a boyfriend? That’s so darling!” 

Marlowe’s voice is closer again, as he says awkwardly, “You are aware that we have anti-discrimination policies here, and anything that Ms. Dreyse is implying—”

“If I say I’ll come,” Jean interjects, “will you two hang up?”

“Yes!” Hitch cries in delight. Jean rolls his eyes.

“...Fine. What time, and where?”

Hitch gives him the address of a neighborhood he already knows is in an affluent area, and she forces him to promise he’ll show up, with a threat of calling him every hour to “check in.” Marlowe starts to launch into an oration about LGBT equality policies until Hitch cuts off the call.

They are officially the oddest pair he’s ever met.

He still hasn’t unpacked all his clothes, and the fancy interview suit his mother had forced on him as a graduation gift is hanging on the back of the bathroom door, still wrapped in the dry cleaner’s plastic.

The studio apartment is large and boxy, more like a luxury condo than a loft. It’s the type of place people dream of living when they grow up in an attic—as Jean did—with high ceilings, modern white walls, and a big picture window overlooking the city of Sina. Even the furnishings were there when he arrived—a glass desk with a special reading lamp over it, track lighting over the kitchen with a big, central island made of some kind of stone, and even a small kitchen table.

Initially, Jean hadn’t known where to put his bed—the only thing that he’d purchased himself—and he’d set it up in the middle of the room so he could look out over the city at night. The view is one he’d only ever seen on architectural magazine covers at the local bookstore.

But it made him dizzy, that first night, so he’d retreated to the small alcove which was actually the “loft” portion of the so-called loft apartment, accessible through only a tiny spiral staircase next to the kitchen.

Jean has always felt safer in small spaces; the vastness of the window bothers him.

That, and he still remembers Sasha getting out of bed, her naked silhouette bending to retrieve her clothes and looking strangely lonely.

But the memory isn’t completely horrible, since she’d immediately made a joke, laughed, and Jean had managed to emerge from the covers.

Jean is convinced that he’s the only guy at the ripe old age of twenty-three who can’t take a girl home and follow through. It fails every time.

The truth is being naked with someone scares him just as much as the giant, vast picture window—too open, too intimate, too much.

At least Sasha had been nice about it.

 

_Bzzt._

 

Jean picks up his phone, frowning, wondering if Hitch has managed to commandeer Marlowe’s phone again. (Jean refuses to give her his personal number, but Marlowe had managed to procure it as some point.) 

**From: Sasha Braus - 6:54 p.m.**  
hey jerk face wut r u doing tonite 

He smiles a little despite himself; he never expected to make friends with Sasha, especially after their awkward incident.

 **To: Sasha Braus - 6:55 p.m.**  
going to some shitty bar for work. idek. also, call me jerk face again and i’m not taking you to that fancy catered holiday party this christmas.

There’s a few minutes delay, until is buzzes again.

 **From: Sasha Braus - 6:57 p.m.**  
well r u goin to invite me tonite or wut 

Jean can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth, snorting. He likes Sasha, if only because she’s so straightforward.

 **To: Sasha Braus - 6:59 p.m.**  
ok. it’s 104 sina ave. i think it’s fancy. :p

 **From: Sasha Braus - 7:01**  
did u srsly just use an emoji

 **To: Sasha Braus - 7:01 p.m.**  
no!! what?!

 **From: Sasha Braus - 7:01 p.m.**  
and u call yrself a tech guy

 **To: Sasha Braus - 7:02 p.m.**  
i’m not a tech guy! i’m a programmer!!

 **From: Sasha Braus - 7:02 p.m.**  
dork wutever c u @ 8?

 **To: Sasha Braus - 7:03 p.m.**  
... yes.

= = =

When he first shows up, he’s not sure he has the address right as he stands in the dark street, staring up at the numbers on the buildings.

The building that’s his (apparent) destination is old, with elaborate moldings and actual _turrets_. If he squints hard enough, though, it almost looks like one of the big buildings in Trost, built in its heyday that’s long since passed and fallen into disuse.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, frowning slightly as he looks around. He’d actually tried to clean up, just to be prepared—shaved and donned a pair of dark denim jeans that he’d bought on a whim, since he didn’t have any casual clothes that weren’t from school or ripped to shreds. (Even though he happens to _like_ jeans that are ripped to shreds—it always made him feel edgy somehow.) Even his hair is in some semblance of order, mussed with some styling wax that his mother had also forced on him with the suit.

She’d said that people in Sina were all fashionable, high class, fancy.

Finally, he spots Sasha as she walks toward him, not paying attention to her surroundings as she stares at her phone, obviously lost.

As she catches sight of him, a look of relief crosses her face, and she hurries over with huge eyes.

“Where are we even?” she whispers, as if someone’s going to hear her.

“Beats the shit out of me,” Jean replies, running his hand through his hair with a huff. “You know how it is here, though. You show up at a warehouse, and suddenly there’s a runway and a bunch of emaciated women wearing sequins.”

Sasha laughs, rolling her eyes. She hasn’t altered her appearance very much, but she’s wearing a short, black cocktail dress that—in Jean’s objective, not-really-interested opinion—looks pretty good her.

“Um,” he says awkwardly, looking at the ground, “yeah, you look nice.”

“You are so awkward,” she laughs, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “How do you even function?”

He looks up at her with wide eyes, and then frowns. “I take it back,” he deadpans, “you look like a hobo.”

“Shut up, dork. Let’s go.” He rolls his eyes at her and moves to press the button for the roof. As they’re buzzed in, though, out of the corner of his eyes he notices she’s biting her lip, staring wide-eyed at the freight elevator in front of them.

“We’re either headed to a homicide or a fancy ass party,” he says, raising an eyebrow as they walk into the elevator and pull it shut. It starts to rise with a jerk, and Sasha pitches forward slightly.

“I think I’m underdressed,” she says suddenly staring at Jean.

“I don’t think—”

The door groans open at that moment, and they both just stare at the scene in front of them.

There’s the soft sound of classical music, a long bar with a string of white lights stretched over it, and a lot of people wearing fancy suits and cocktail dresses. 

“Um,” she whispers, getting closer to Jean as they both slowly emerge from the elevator, “these are your co-workers?”

“Fucked if I know,” he whispers back, swallowing hard, even though he tries to hide it. “I work from home ninety-nine percent of the time.” He takes another look around, and turns his eyes toward Sasha. “Thank god,” he tacks on. That seems to put her a little more at ease, and she laughs behind her hand.

“Jean!”

“Who’s that?” Sasha whispers, obviously more than a little awed.

Hitch is wearing an open-back, glittery gold dress that’s obviously not from anywhere Jean has ever shopped, and she’s making her rounds through the crowd to survey everyone’s conversations and level of intoxication.

She is, in short, a predator. But Jean can’t help but admire her for it.

“Hitch,” Jean says in monotone, “Sasha. Sasha, Hitch.”

“Oh,” Hitch purrs, putting a finger up to her chin in a deceptively demure gesture, “I thought you said you didn’t have a girlfriend.”

She turns her eyes expectantly to Sasha, raising an eyebrow.

Much to Jean’s amusement, Sasha just stares right back at her, as if baffled about what this game is.

“Uh,” she finally replies, finding her voice and fidgeting with her dress, “I’m not. We’re just friends.”

Hitch just blinks, staring at them—apparently having met her guileless match—and then she gives one of those smiles that makes Jean nervous.

“Precious,” she says flatly. “Well, then, enjoy the party.”

And with that, she walks away, and Sasha exhales.

“Let’s go to the bar,” Jean declares in a quiet voice. Sasha gives a nervous laugh, and snaps her mouth shut.

“I told you I’m underdressed,” he says through gritted teeth as they pass through a sea of designer outfits and the cloy of expensive perfume. “I should’ve worn something nicer.”

As they reach the bar, Jean pokes her arm.

“Since when do you care what people think?” he asks, giving her a teasing grin. But when she just looks pale, he turns more serious.

“Look,” he murmurs, shooting a glance around, “these people are shitty. You already know that. This entire city’s a shit show.”

She swallows hard, but looks a little more at ease.

“I guess,” she murmurs, slouching over the bar and looking dejected. “I mean, who wants to be in _Trost_ their whole life?” She wrinkles her nose derisively, but then sighs. “Let’s just drink.” 

Jean grins at her; that sounds more like the Sasha he’s come to know.

Sasha orders white wine, and he sticks with whiskey on the rocks, and they remain t the edges of the party.

“View’s kinda nice,” she says cheerfully, casting her eyes out over the city.

Jean just shrugs and looks away; he hates the view, but he doesn’t feel like explaining himself. However, just as he’s about to change the subject, they both at the sound of a loud crash, and then a slurred voice.

“This _should not_ be a company expense!” There’s another crash as the the perpetrator knocks over a hapless guest’s glass from a table.

Suddenly, Hitch appears next to them, giving a heavy sigh and pursing her lips ever so slightly. She strides over purposefully, her body ramrod straight with tension as the sharp clip of stiletto heels announce her arrival.

“Who’s that?” Sasha whispers.

“Well, holy shit,” Jean blurts out, dumbfounded as he watches from a distance.

Marlowe Sand is currently absolutely plastered, wagging his finger wildly as he rants in slurs at no one in particular. Then, he almost trips and falls flat on his face as he advances toward the bar to apparently get another drink.

“Sorry,” Hitch says with a sweet smile at the people staring as she grabs Marlowe’s arm, “he’s upset because... of a death in his family.”

“No one died,” Marlowe mumbles, looking at Hitch incredulously, momentarily distracted.

She smacks him in the arm and leans in toward his ear, and Jean is relatively sure he can see her hissing, “Shut up.”

His tie is askew, his hair mussed, and she drags him into a corner as everyone continues to go about their business once the excitement is over.

Jean raises an eyebrow as he watches Hitch smooth Marlowe’s tie down, shaking her head and murmuring angry words at him.

When he tries to kiss her, she makes a disgusted sound, but doesn’t let go of his arm.

“What the hell,” Jean murmurs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why do I work in an asylum?”

Sasha giggles nervously, and grabs Jean’s arm. “Hey,” she says, poking him, “you wanna dance? There’s a dance floor.”

Jean turns his head to look at her in surprise, and after a moment, gives a tired roll of his eyes; but it’s mitigated by a small, teasing grin.

“Fine,” he grumbles, eyeing the dance floor warily. There aren’t many people on it, although at least Sasha will relax if it’s just the two of them. Privately, he feels guilty that he brought her to the most stuck-up place he’s been so far in Sina.

However, suddenly, Sasha’s attention is diverted, and she’s staring just beyond Jean’s shoulder.

“Wow,” she breathes, her mouth hanging open slightly. “Um...”

To Jean’s surprise, she looks away, blushing fiercely. “C’mon,” she says, tugging at his arm, “let’s dance.”

Jean starts to grin mischievously at her, delighted that for once, he can tease her, rather than the other way around.

“Some hot rich guy?” he asks, poking her in the arm gently, smirking.

She scowls at him, and he turns around to see the guy in question, only to echo breathlessly, “...Wow.”

There’s a girl at the bar, leaning over it with a glass of what is obviously sparkling water, satiny black hair cropped at her chin, wearing a simple grey cocktail dress.

“Um,” Sasha says nervously, laughing a little, “you should go talk to her.”

Jean turns to look at her with a raised eyebrow, but she just smiles at him. “We can dance after, right?” She gives a nervous laugh, crossing her arms over her chest.

He’s completely baffled, but nods. “Uh, okay. Do you want another drink? I, um...” he stutters, starting to blush and trying to fight it off, “could use that as an excuse.”

“Yeah!” Sasha enthuses. “I’m going to look out at the lights, okay?”

Before he can answer, she’s gone, walking away quickly.

He ambles up to the bar, trying to look slick, although still a little puzzled by Sasha’s reaction. 

Once he gets close, though, he leans against the bar awkwardly and tries to get her attention. She just continues to stare into her drink, until he speaks.

“Hi,” he croaks.

So much for being suave.

The girl looks up at him in surprise, and he can tell by the look in her calm, grey eyes that she’s calculating his intentions.

“Um,” he says, leaning against the cold slate bar, “so, what are you drinking?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Scotch.”

He nods awkwardly, looking at the back bar and trying not to blush. He can’t actually remember why he thought this was a good idea—a theme in his life, apparently—and he tries again.

“My friend needs another drink, so I guess I’ll go with wine...” he trails off awkwardly.

He forces himself to look up at her again, and then notices a sizable red ruby pendant around her neck. Somehow, though, on her, it’s not ostentatious.

She gives him an impassive gaze, and then goes back to staring into her sparkling water. 

Suddenly, she says in a flat, calm voice, “She looks like a vodka girl. Fruity drinks, mostly. Tonic on a bad day.”

Jean’s eyes widen; she’s so placid, it’s almost unnerving.

She turns to face him, meeting his eyes directly. At first, she doesn’t say anything else, taking a sip of her water.

“Are you her boyfriend?” she asks.

“No!” Jean practically squeaks, wondering if it’s her way of asking if he’s single. “You have pretty hair,” he blurts out, trying not to let his face turn completely red.

He really never grew out of the teenage boy phase, mostly from nerves he thought would go away.

Needless to say, they didn’t.

“Uh, thanks,” she replies, looking mildly amused. “I’m Mikasa.”

“Oh,” he stutters, “um, nice to meet you. Do you work for the company?”

She straightens up, sliding her now empty glass back toward the bar. “Sort of.”

Jean watches her as she stands—she’s actually taller than him—and she rolls her shoulders back like a black swan unfurling its wings. There’s something about her that he’d rather watch, than touch.

But that’s like most things for Jean.

Behind her, the lights of the city twinkle and shine, and for a moment, he can only see her in profile.

“What’s your name?” she asks, snapping him out of it as his eyes refocus on her. He wonders if he’s drunk, even though he’s relatively sure he’s not. 

“Jean,” he replies simply. “I’m on contract.” Then he cocks his hip, trying to look confident. “They hired me straight out of university, because I had top marks.”

Mikasa raises an eyebrow at him, obviously not particularly impressed by this information.

“What’s your friend’s name?” she asks, draining her glass and setting it down on the bar.

“Sir?” interjects the bartender as he comes to collect the glass. “What would you like?”

“He’ll have a whiskey, and a vodka tonic,” Mikasa interrupts. The bartender raises an eyebrow—Jean realizes, suddenly, that he looks familiar—and goes to retrieve the drinks.

“It’s a vodka tonic kind of day,” she remarks mysteriously with a slight shrug. “Your friend could use it—she looks stressed out.”

Jean blinks in surprise, and then turns to look in the direction Sasha went. Sure enough, she’s standing at the edge of the bar, looking out over the city with her arms wrapped defensively around herself.

“Well, this scene is kind of...” he snaps his mouth shut, not wanting to get fired. While Jean doesn’t care about what people think of him, he’d prefer to keep his job, and he doesn’t know who this Mikasa actually is. “Uh, rich for my blood.”

To his surprise, though, Mikasa just nods with a knowing expression. Then, she grabs the two drinks that land on the bar just at that moment.

“Here,” she says, sliding the whiskey toward Jean and holding a clear glass with ice and a lime in the other. “Mind if I take it to her? I’m bored sitting here.”

Jean just shrugs. “Uh, sure. We’re supposed to dance, so tell her I’m waiting over here.”

He doesn’t know what to make of Mikasa’s interest in Sasha, but he figures it’s better than standing around with a bunch of wealthy, stuck up socialites and pencil pushers. Mikasa is strangely distant, but she also doesn’t seem condescending.

She nods at him, and then disappears as she carries the drink away and walks toward Sasha. Her hair fans out behind her like black silk, and Jean just watches in awe.

She really is beautiful.

“Cute, huh?” comes a deep voice from the bar. “She’s been sitting here alone all night. I think everyone else is scared of her.”

Jean looks over in surprise at the bartender who’s suddenly dropped the formal titles and is grinning, shaking his head.

Jean blinks in disbelief, and then his eyes widen.

“Reiner?” Jean exclaims. “You’re shitting me.”

Reiner grins even more widely. “Kirschstein, what are you doing here?”

Jean makes a face. “I work here.”

“No shit?” Reiner retorts incredulously, laughing. “Well, you always were pretty smart.”

Reiner Braun—hot shot on the wrestling team who had something of a nervous breakdown his freshman year of university, from what Jean had heard—but a really nice guy, all around.

“You’re bartending now?” Jean asks, settling into the seat formerly occupied by Mikasa.

“Yup,” Reiner says, nodding as he retrieves two empty glasses.

To Jean’s mortification, a guy in an expensive suit with a haircut that would make Patrick Bateman proud practically throws a few bills at Reiner.

“If you hadn’t fucked up the first round, I would’ve tipped you more,” he snaps, as if Reiner has the IQ of a donkey. The man makes a dismissive “tch” sound, rolling his eyes and marching self-righteously away, and Jean has half a mind to go up and knock his lights out.

Reiner sneaks a look at Jean, and then Jean almost starts to laugh when Reiner makes a rude jerking off gesture under the bar with a roll of his eyes. He pockets the bills as another guest places an order, and Jean studies him.

Reiner hasn’t actually changed a lot. He still has short, cropped blond hair, that friendly but somewhat harsh face, and from what Jean can see, apparently a tattoo on his bicep now. It looks somewhat new, from what Jean knows about tattoos. He only has one on the back of his shoulder that no one knows about.

He’s glad for that now, especially since Reiner Braun was always a merciless tease, and he assumes not much has changed.

“So,” Reiner says as he returns to Jean finally, “what got you roped into this penguin show?”

Jean laughs a little, taking a sip of his whiskey. It burns down his throat in a pleasant way, and he shrugs.

“I work from home doing boring shit on the computer.”

Reiner raises an eyebrow before darting his eyes back and forth, and sneaking a sip of Jean’s whiskey. Jean smirks and pushes it toward him.

“I don’t want to get drunk,” he explains. “So, what’s your tattoo?”

Reiner rolls up the sleeve of his casual t-shirt—apparently, fancy outdoor party attire does not apply to the bartender—and shows Jean.

It’s a lightning bolt (only Reiner would have a lightning bolt tattoo); but when Jean realizes there’s script around it, his eyes widen.

“Bertolt?” he asks as he reads it, looking up at Reiner questioningly. “Do you mean—”

“One year last month,” Reiner replies with a grin, taking another illicit sip of whiskey.

Bertolt Hoover was Reiner’s best friend through thick and thin in high school, and they even went to the same university. Jean had wondered at the time what happened to him when Reiner dropped out and had to spend some time in the psych ward at Trost General.

Apparently, they’d declared their blissful nuptials.

“Yup,” Reiner says, grinning wider than Jean’s ever seen someone smile. “Bertl and I got hitched.”

Jean laughs at the cheesy expression and rolls his eyes. “Congrats,” he replies with a shrug. “So, uh...” He raises an eyebrow, sneaking a peek behind them. “Who is she?”

Reiner cocks his head to the side in confusion, and then realization lights his eyes. “Oh, Mikasa Ackerman? She’s Levi Ackerman’s sister or something... you know, the CEO?”

Jean is suddenly very glad he didn’t say anything rude.

“Oh,” he replies meekly. “Uh, I hope she wasn’t pissed I was hitting on her.” He drains the glass that Reiner’s mostly already finished and runs a nervous hand through his hair, forgetting there’s styling wax in it.

Reiner lets out a loud guffaw, and a few people turn around; when Jean glares at them, they look away.

“Hitting on her?” Reiner finally asks in disbelief. “I wouldn’t call it that. More like, an awkward moment in the elevator at work.” He pats Jean’s shoulder in a show of sympathy, and Jean scowls at him.

Somehow, though, it doesn’t come off as mean-spirited, because it’s Reiner. Everything is teasing, and nothing is actually cruel.

Jean snorts dismissively at him and rolls his eyes. “Whatever. It’s not like you get any action.”

Reiner grins at him, flashing his white teeth. “You don’t even know the half of it, Kirschstein. I get more action in an hour that you’ve gotten your entire life.”

Sadly, Jean actually suspects this might be true.

“Uh oh,” Reiner comments suddenly as Jean sets down the heavy glass on the bar top.

“What?” Jean replies turning around to see where Reiner’s looking.

And it’s just his luck: he spots Sasha standing with Mikasa, and they're holding hands as they talk quietly. Sasha giggles, and even Mikasa smiles faintly.

“Great,” Jean grumps, heaving a sigh.

“I saw what happened,” Reiner replies, rolling his eyes slightly and refilling Jean’s empty glass. “Your friend saw Mikasa first. You’re just too thick-skulled to realize.”

Jean’s about to open his mouth to argue, but then he realizes Reiner’s right.

“This sucks,” he blurts out, frowning. “I’m gonna go home.”

Reiner shrugs a little. “Want a ride? I get off shift in about half an hour”

“I’m in Sina now. Isn’t it a little out of your way?” Jean asks uncertainly. 

Reiner gives another shrug. “Whatever. You look like you could use the company.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jean demands, squinting at Reiner. Reiner immediately recoils, holding his hands up.

“Nothing!” he exclaims. “I’m just saying... you look kind of lonely.”

“Well, who could be lonely when I’m around?” comes a silvery voice, and Jean finds Hitch suddenly latched onto his arm. From the way she totters slightly, Jean realizes she’s a little drunk, too. “Ooh, Jean, don’t you want to kiss me?”

Jean immediately tries to pull away, but she won’t let go.

“Hey!” Reiner snaps in a protective voice. “The guy said he wants to go home.” He looks at Jean, and says very seriously, “That’s an issue of consent.”

Jean’s eyes widen, and then he rolls them. “You’ve been going to too many LGBT pride parades.”

Reiner points at him, jabbing his finger in the air. “It’s true either way, smart ass.”

Jean groans, trying to shrug Hitch off; suddenly a still-drunk Marlowe walks up, although he’s obviously not as gone as he was before.

“Hitch,” he says in a tired voice, calling her by her first name for once, “let’s go.”

“Hm, Marlowe, you’re a brute,” she sighs, looking at Jean longingly. “Unlike Jean, here, who’s adorable. I just want to kiss you until you melt,” she coos at him. Jean finally pulls away forcefully, her touch starting to make him uncomfortable; Reiner gives him a sympathetic look.

“ _Dreyse,_ ” Marlowe barks, and Hitch immediately straightens up and turns to give him a serious look.

“This isn’t a drill,” she says, frowning at him. “Go away, you big lug.” 

To Jean’s surprise, he realizes after a few moments that she’s serious.

“If this were a drill, your ass would be demoted so fast your head would spin. Stop acting like a trollop and let’s go.”

“A trollop?!” Hitch keens.

Before she can get too angry, Marlowe nimbly scoops her up and away; she’s cursing at him the entire time, but he doesn’t relent, dragging her off into the same corner she had dragged him before.

Jean rolls his eyes at Reiner and shakes his head. “Serious fucking weirdos,” he says simply, and Reiner laughs. 

He sits there for a few minutes, deciding to take Reiner up on his offer. Talking to someone normal—even for the duration of a car ride—sounds like a welcome change from the small talk and incessant tinkly laughter emanating from the party.

Suddenly, he starts as he feels a tap on his shoulder, turning to see Sasha. She’s blushing slightly, and Mikasa is standing behind her, looking quietly pleased with herself for a reason Jean can guess at.

“Uh,” Sasha says awkwardly, pulling her dress down a little and fidgeting, “Mikasa asked me if I want to, um, go back to her apartment for another drink. Do you—”

“You’re a pain, Braus. I’ll see you later.”

Sasha grins immediately, and leans forward to give Jean a chaste kiss on the cheek. “You’re the best!” And with that, she practically skips off, following Mikasa like a loyal puppy down the emergency stairwell where they disappear from sight.

His new friend, whom he failed to hook up with a month ago, just left with the girl he thought he was hitting on, to go (possibly) hook up with each other. 

Fuck his life.

The car ride home with Reiner is uneventful, but it is nice to hear about what’s happening back in Trost where Reiner still lives with Bertolt.

He’s almost regretful to leave as Reiner’s battered old station wagon rumbles up to Jean’s fancy high rise building.

He whistles a little, leaning forward to look up through the windshield and raising an eyebrow. “Nice digs. I should’ve gone into computer programming.”

Jean laughs, but then sighs. “It’s boring as shit. I don’t know...” He starts to descend into how bored he is, but then remembers that Reiner isn’t exactly well off, and he had a breakdown.

Jean could have it a lot worse.

“You, um...” he stumbles over his words. He wants to invite Reiner and Bertolt over to hang out, to appreciate his terrifying view maybe.

“You’re a good driver,” he says awkwardly unclicking his seatbelt and opening the door. “Thanks for the ride. Say hi to Bertolt.”

“Will do,” Reiner says, casually saluting Jean with two fingers. “See ya around.”

Jean feels regret settle like a cold lead weight in his stomach as Reiner’s car disappears around the corner, leaving him standing there in the warm night air, dreading going back up to this lonely box of an apartment.

But he forces himself to, knowing he doesn’t have a choice. 

The doorman stops him and demands ID to confirm that he lives there, and doesn’t budge when Jean says he’s been there for a month.

“I know everyone who lives here,” the doorman says confidently, “and I’ve never seen you before.”

When Jean shows him the license, the guy does a double-take. 

“Well, all right,” he says awkwardly, and Jean retreats. 

The elevator ride is nerve-wrackingly quiet as it slowly crawls to tenth floor, pinging with such a loud sound, Jean jumps. 

He fumbles with his keys to unlock the door and slouches into the doorway, flicking on the track lights.

His shoes make heavy footfalls against the hardwood floor as drops his keys on the glass desk, before rooting around in the fridge for the leftover Chinese food he knows is there.

He’s anxious, though. Being in the apartment always stresses him out; possibly because he does all his work here, and possibly because the silence is just too oppressive.

“Fuck,” he says quietly, leaning his head against the cool surface of the refrigerator. He considers doing work, but that will probably drive him even more crazy. Going to bed isn’t an option; he’s still wired from the social interaction and alcohol.

Instead, has a few bites of lo mein that he doesn’t bother to heat up, and then sticks it back in the fridge.

He really just wants something to make him relax—maybe an orgasm or a little normal human interaction.

He knows he’s at a low point, and he’s got nothing left to lose, so he boots up his computer, blushing with embarrassment as he brings up the Internet browser.

It opens to Google, and he just stares at it, before typing in “porn search.” A few different search engines come up, and he chooses one arbitrarily, before searching for the most generic term he can think of, which is “hot fuck.”  
The first ads hold no interest for him:

 

_Hot hot hot girls! Click here to fuck!_

 

_Horny slut gets fucked hard!_

 

Jean scowls, and clicks to change the porn search engine to gay sites. Already too creepy for his tastes.

This time, he searches for “hot guys.”

_Hot bitch boy sucks a big cock!_

_Twink gets cream pie!_

He groans—partly out of disgust, partly out of exasperation—since none of this is really what he’s looking for.

He’s about to give up, until he sees an intriguing link.

_Cam sites—real people, doing real things, right now. Click here for SinaKinkLink!_

Jean clicks, and it isn’t quite what he’s expecting; he’s also curious, though, because he’s never even been on a cam site.

There’s an attractive guy at the top of the cam website banner, obviously a stock photo of some hapless male model who never knew he’d get plastered on a porn site. Jean snorts and raises an eyebrow, until he sees all the different “channels.”

Out of curiosity, he clicks one, and to his surprise, finds that there really is a real person doing something on screen.

It’s a decent-looking guy—nothing too spectacular, just an average person—and he’s sitting in front of his computer with a grin, responding to everyone in the free chat.

Jean clicks back, and flips through a few more channels. It’s all the same type of thing, only it’s mostly girls, and not a lot of guys. There are some, though, and that’s what Jean is in the mood for right now. 

He scrolls around, but realizes that he’s really not going to get anything worth watching unless he pays for it. It’s not as if he’s short on cash these days, so he decides to make a profile and add what the site calls “tokens.” He’s too tired to try to come up with something creative or clever for his username, and types in “JK.”

Whatever. It’s unlikely he’ll do this again, but what the hell. The night can’t get any worse.

Now logged in as JK and armed with his so-called tokens, he cruises around the channels. The few guys he encounters aren’t really his type (not that he has a type, per se, but still), and most of them are offering to take off more clothes or choose a new toy if participants “tip” them. 

It feels too much like a strip club, until he encounters one channel that doesn’t seem to have much going on, except a very... what Jean might call “cute” guy... typing at his computer, not wearing clothes. He looks so content, though, Jean can’t help but click to enter the chat room.

There are only a few other members in the room, and apparently, this cam model—who apparently goes by “FreckledBod”—is currently discussing relationships and giving someone advice.

AssMan99 says: You’re the best! 

RoundandJuicy says: Hi, Freckles... you’re hot!! Do you have toys? :-)

FreckledBod grins, and suddenly, a cash register sound scares Jean almost senseless.

“Thanks for the tip,” he replies with a smile, “but I’m not going anything yet.”

RoundandJuicy says: C’mon! I tipped you!

The smile on FreckledBod’s face wavers, and Jean scowls.

JK says: fuck off, juicy guy.

FreckledBod looks startled, and his eyes widen as he looks up.

“JK,” he says sternly, his brow furrowing slightly, “no cursing in my chat.”

JK says: sorry.  
JK says: but that guy is being a jerk.

RoundandJuicy says: You’re an idiot, JK! Tell him to do something! Maybe if we all do, he’ll get sexy.

Jean rolls his eyes. If this guy was someone at a bar, he’d probably need to deck him.

JK says: if he wants to do something then he will. shut up.

At this point, FreckledBod just seems to be staring at his screen, watching the conversation go back and forth with wide eyes.

RoundandJuicy: Put your money where your mouth is joking, or else gtfo.

JK says: what?

FreckledBod pipes in, and Jean can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

“He means your name is joking, JK, because that’s the Internet acronym for ‘joking.’”

JK says: fine. you want me to tip him? will that make you shut up?

RoundandJuicy says: *snort* Yeah right.

Jean smirks at the screen, and proceeds to press the small icon at the bottom right that seems to produce tips; only instead of a bunch of cash register sounds, the screen totally switches, and suddenly, FreckledBod is sitting there with a big smile on his face.

“Hi!” he says brightly, peering into the camera. Jean immediately shies away, looking down at the keyboard awkwardly, until he realizes he can’t be seen.

JK says: uh, hi.

“So,” FreckledBod says into the camera, shifting to go sit on a neatly made bed, “thanks for the tip and private request!” He shoots a smile at the camera, tilting his face in such a way that says he knows his good angles, and also how to look absolutely adorable.

That, or the responsible kid in high school who you’d trust to help you with your homework.

JK says: um i didn’t know that’s what i was doing. that guy was a dick. wait, can i swear now?

FreckledBod raises a playful eyebrow, smiling wider as his freckles bunch up—“freckled bod” indeed.

“Sure. I guess it’s my lucky day, but sorry if you didn’t actually want to tip me.” He shrugs a little. “You know we’re in a private show right now, right?”

JK says: what???

FreckledBod’s eyes widen, and he starts to laugh a little. “I’m sorry, but you should know right now that you’re paying ten tokens a minute to be talking to me, and no one else can see us.”

That piques Jean’s attention, and he straightens slightly.

JK: no one can see us?

“You’re paying the big bucks, so no.”

JK says: good.

The man on the other end of the cam looks intrigued suddenly, and looks closely into the lens again.

“Shy?” he asks, and his voice is tactful. “That’s okay.”

JK says: no!

That earns a laugh, and FreckledBod just shakes his head. “It’s okay if you are. Lots of my clients are shy... that’s one of the parts of camming people like.” He shrugs indifferently, still smiling a little. “Do you want to see me do something?”

Jean swallows hard as he stares the screen, his fingers frozen, hovering above the keyboard.

JK says: yeah.

The pleasant timbre of his companion’s voice drops into a lower register, and suddenly he’s all dark sensuality with a sweet expression. “What would you like to see?”

JK says: idk. you’re the expert. you figure it out.

Jean scowls at the screen, suddenly feeling put out, even though he wants to keep talking to FreckledBod.

But his razor-edged response just earns another amused snort, and then the camera shifts slightly. 

“I’ll make it easy for you,” he says simply, stepping back to show a variety of sex toys on a nearby table that make Jean’s cock twitch with enthusiasm. “Pick one. I like all of them.”

Jean looks at the selection for a minute; he doesn’t even recognize some of them based on the shape.

There are a few long moments of silence when he doesn’t type anything, and that soft, deep voice startles him.

“Or,” and he swears he can hear a little disappointment there, “you can end the private if I’m not your type. No hard feelings.”

JK: no! i’m just... browsing.  
JK: ...  
JK: how about that pink thing?

FreckledBod grins enthusiastically with a nod. “I love this one.”

He stands up to turn and retrieve the toy, and Jean can’t help but stare at his ass—it’s a really nice ass.

“You like what you see?” FreckledBod asks, turning around without a hint of self-consciousness, his cock hanging between his legs. It’s a little bigger than Jean would’ve expected, and he licks his lips.

JK: yeah.

“Good,” he replies, nodding his head and grabbing a tube of lube. 

And with that, he lies down on the bed, propped up by a few pillows so he can still look at Jean and read the screen. Jean isn’t brave enough to use a mic.

He starts by pushing his legs apart so Jean can see everything, and touching himself slowly, as if recording his own body to memory. He starts by touching his nipples, wetting his finger to rub his index finger there, and down lower until he reaches his cock. He squeezes his balls gently, and a sharp gasp makes its way out of his throat.

Jean doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until FreckledBod reaches down to tease at his own hole, smearing lube there.

“What are you doing to yourself?” he asks as he teases himself. “Tell me.”

Heat shimmers through Jean, and he bites his lip, stifling a groan. It’s not like anyone is going to hear him, but he’s simultaneously embarrassed and painfully aroused.

SK says: tbh, nothing. but... i like watching you.

That gets a warm smile, and then a slight gasp as FreckledBod penetrates himself with his fingertip slowly.

“Put your hand on your dick,” comes the calm, guiding voice. “If you’re still wearing your pants, just play with yourself through them.”

Jean hisses breath, his eyes rolling back in his head slightly as he palms his cock through his jeans. He hasn’t felt this turned on since high school.

“Are you touching yourself, JK?”

JK says: yeah

“Does it feel good? Do you want me to fuck myself with my own fingers now?”

JK says: eayea

FreckledBod laughs louder now, and he grins good-naturedly. “I think that’s a good sign.” His breath catches slightly, though, as he lies back on the bed and spreads his legs wider. He reaches for the tube of lube again and squirts some more onto his fingers, before reaching back between his legs to rub slow circles against his hole, bucking his hips slightly as he moans.

Jean’s own hips are twitching, rutting up into his own hand as he desperately tries to stroke himself through the thick fabric of his jeans. Even though he wants to pull his cock out, he doesn’t. There’s something about doing what this stranger tells him to that awakens a part of Jean he didn’t even know existed.

Somehow, it feels safe; safe enough that he can forget about nerves and embarrassment, and just focus on what he’s doing.

There’s a loud gasp as FreckledBod pushes a finger into himself slowly, and he whines quietly.

“Mm,” he hums, “that feels good.”

There’s something about the words, though, that immediately makes doubt flood into Jean’s mind.

JK says: is this for serious?

He gets a surprised look and raise of eyebrows as his companion is distracted by the chirp of the message, pulling his finger out of himself and sitting up to look more closely at the screen.

To Jean’s surprise, the expression on FreckledBod’s face is nothing short of discouraged.

“Do you not like what I’m doing?” he asks, biting his lip and looking worried. 

JK says: no no sorry!! i meant ... are you really getting off to this?

FreckledBod squints a little as he reads the text, his lips moving in a rather endearing way as he reads Jean’s message, and then he laughs a little.

“Oh!” he replies, his dark eyes turning up to the cam. “Yeah, I mean... I like camming. I like doing this, or else I wouldn’t be doing it.”

JK says: oh...  
JK says: okay you can continue.

FreckledBod settles back onto the bed on his back, resumes his position, and replies curtly, “Thank you, your majesty, for your permission.”

And then, he fucking winks at the camera.

Jean’s heart starts to thump a little harder, because FreckledBod is officially the most endearing person he’s ever come across in his life.

Jean hates endearing people.

JK says: shut up.

There’s a warm laugh, and then another gasp.

“How hard are you, JK?”

JK: my name’s jean. stop calling me jk. it sounds dumb.

Jean’s expecting FreckledBod to laugh, but instead, he grits out, “How hard are you, Jean? Are you nice and hard for me? Is there precome oozing out of your cock?”

Jean forgets everything as he moans at the rasp of the voice. The sound of Jean’s name there, though, pushes him over the edge into absolute and total obedience.

JK says: yeah. can i take it out now?

That earns a knowing smile, even through the panted words as FreckledBod fucks himself with his fingers, and he nods. “Yeah. Push your pants around your thighs for me, and touch yourself. Don’t jerk off. Just touch yourself, and tell me how it feels.”

Jean groans, eagerly unzipping his jeans and pushing them down his thighs. It feels dirty to be half-clothed and touching himself, but he doesn’t care. It feels good.

When Jean masturbates, it’s a practicality—in the morning, or when he’s feeling horny. He jerks off and orgasms quickly, and doesn’t stop to think too much about the pleasure he feels. It’s enjoyable, but also uncomfortable if he over-thinks it. He never takes his time.

Now, he touches himself like he’s never even felt his own cock before, running his fingers lightly up and down the erect shaft, squeezing his balls slightly and playing with them, and then circling his thumb over the wet tip slowly.

He shudders, but doesn’t stop, even finding the courage to look up at FreckledBod since they can’t actually make eye contact.

To his surprise, though, it’s a nice feeling.

JK says: it feels good.

“Is there precome?” is the shameless question that follows.

JK says: yeah.

“Taste it.”

Jean’s eyes widen, and flushes.

JK: what?

Suddenly, he’s trapped by a dark, intense stare as FreckledBod looks into the camera, as if searching for where Jean’s eyes would be.

“I said,” he repeats in that low, calm voice, “rub your fingers in your own precome, and taste it. Put your fingers in your mouth, and suck them clean.”

Jean fumbles as he obeys, panting hard and biting his lip. He drags his index and middle fingers across the head of his cock, and then hesitantly lifts his hand to his mouth.

“How does it taste, Jean?”

Jean closes his eyes and moans raggedly as he sucks on his fingers; it’s not a bad taste, and it’s a little mind boggling that it’s also his own come. He keeps sucking, licking the pads of his fingers, until the moans have turned into little high-pitched whines that are emerging with the beat of his heart. His hand is still in his mouth, trying to muffle the sound as he haphazardly types with the other.

JK says: gdoo  
JK says: good  
JK says: it tastes good  
JK says: fuck 

FreckledBod’s long, drawn out sigh of, “Good boy,” makes Jean tremble.

JK: mm i  
JK: tell me what else to do

“Do you have something slippery?” FreckledBod asks in a low purr.

JK says: just spit.

“Better than nothing,” he replies, pulling his fingers out of himself. “I’m going to show you,” he trails off, retrieving the pink toy Jean had chosen before to roll a condom over it and smooth a generous amount of lube over it, “how to properly utilize lubricant.”

Jean can barely move as he stares intently at the screen; FreckledBod stops and gives him half a grin, as if he can feel the weight of Jean’s eyes.

“First,” he says, bending his knees up and spreading his legs wide to show Jean absolutely everything, “you warm yourself up. Fingers are good, but use plenty of lube. Have you ever had anything in your ass, Jean?”

Jean is practically panting as his hand shakes on his dick, trying desperately not to just jerk off. He’s staring at the way FreckledBod has started to run his slick hand up and down the impressively sized neon pink dildo.

“Jean?”

Jean snaps out of it, taking in a shuddery breath that does absolutely nothing to calm him down or alleviate the growing pressure in his cock; it’s almost embarrassing how hard he is.

JK says: uh  
JK says: no

FreckledBod gives him another one of those bright smiles, and Jean feels himself flush.

“You lube up whatever’s going in there _nice_ and slick,” he says, “and then...” His words catch as he slowly eases the tip of the dildo into himself, and his back arches; it’s the first time Jean’s really seen him lose it.

“Are you watching me?” he moans, craning his neck awkwardly and obviously forcing his eyes open to look at the screen.

JK says: goodyou look good fuck  
JK says: fuck yourself

FreckledBod gives a groan of approval at Jean’s forcefulness—Jean himself is surprised at his own eagerness—and starts to stroke his own cock as he eases the toy all the way in.

And fuck himself, he does. He rides the toy like a real dick, getting off on it as he jerks at his flushed cock at the same time, his thighs spread wide as his well muscled body strains to rut into his own hand.

Before Jean realizes what he’s doing, he’s spit into his hand and starts jerking off in tandem, until he hears a ragged voice.

“If you’re jerking off, put your hands behind your back now. I didn’t give you permission yet.”

He manages to say it even as he’s sliding the dildo in and out of his ass fast now, riding it in all earnestness, his slick cock sliding through the tight fist he has around it.

JK says: you’re kidding right?

FreckledBod gives him a dark stare, pinning Jean with those eyes and flushed cheeks under deceptively endearing freckles.

“Put your hands,” he growls, staring, “behind your back, Jean, until I tell you to stop.”

Jean gives a frustrated, hoarse cry—no longer caring if anyone can hear him—as he folds his hand behind his back behind the chair, gripping one hand around his own wrist to hold them in place.

“Are they behind your back?”

There’s a short silence, and Jean realizes he can’t type; but he doesn’t want to disobey. He wants to please FreckledBod, because he’s so senseless he no longer knows which way is up or down, what city he’s in, or what his own name is.

It feels amazing.

“Good,” FreckledBod grits out, raising an eyebrow. 

Jean’s cock is aching, standing out flushed, wet, and erect obscenely his jeans. He shakes his hips with a pitiful whine, trying to get any kind of friction he can. It just jostles heavily and makes it even worse.

“How does your cock feel?” FreckledBod asks with a smile as he slowly slides the toy out of himself, setting it aside. 

When Jean stays where he is, he feels like he could come without even touching himself when Freckled Body says that phrase again: “Good boy, Jean. You’re being so good for me.”

Jean moans and tilts his head back, squirming. “I’m good for you.”

He doesn’t even bother to think too long about the fact that he’s talking practically to himself in an empty apartment, because he’s lost all sense of self-awareness.

“I’m so good for you,” he groans out in a pitiful whine, “let me come, please, let me come...”

FreckledBod is stroking himself faster now, and for a moment, Jean thinks he’s been forgotten. It hits him with a frightening wave of emotion, since the very thought makes him want to cry.

“Mm, good Jean,” FreckledBod says into the camera, and Jean realizes he’s still being stared at intently, even though this person has no idea what he looks like or what he’s doing. “Now get yourself off. I want you to come before me, because you’ve been so well-behaved.”

Jean pants, practically hitting his hand on the desk as he swings it around to stroke himself desperately; he spits into his hand a few times now, messy and uncaring, and he ruts up into the tight circle of his fist.

The noise he makes when he comes is one he doesn’t recognize. It’s desperate, shrill, and _loud_ , followed by a screamed “fuck” that’s so deafening, he wouldn’t be surprised if someone came down to pound on his door.

He’s got his eyes closed, but then he forces them open just in time to see FreckledBod’s orgasm; his cock is curved up and it spurts come all over his stomach, all over the bed, and Jean finally notices that his own come is streaked across the glass desk in a viscous, obscene splatter.

“Fuck,” he whispers, panting, feeling lightheaded. He can’t help it as he doubles over, not even bothering to avoid streaking his own release even more with his forearm.

“Mm, Jean,” comes a pleasant, warm hum. “That was really good. Did that feel good for you?”

JK says: yeah  
JK says: what’s your name?

FreckledBod raises an eyebrow, laughing a little.

“I don’t give my real name out to clients,” he replies. “But... you can call me M. How about that?”

JK says: okay, m.  
JK says: um...  
JK says: thanks.  
JK says: um.  
JK says: that was kind of amazing.

M smiles at him, and this time, it’s softer and more like a regular smile.

“That’s my job. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

JK says: it was intense.

M nods, slowly sitting up with a visible effort that makes Jean feel at least a little proud. His enjoyment of the experience didn’t seem forced or fake, and if it was, it didn’t feel that way to Jean.

“Are you doing anything else tonight?” M asks, looking into the camera with those dark eyes, his freckles bunching a little as he raises his eyebrows. When they started, he was cute. Now, he’s unbearably attractive; Jean wonders what he’s like in real life, but then puts the thought out of his head.

JK says: no.

“Okay, then,” M says, nodding. “I want you to get up, clean yourself up, take a nice hot shower, and then go to bed.”

JK says: uh, why?

M sits up on the bed, looking completely unselfconscious at his own nudity.

Then, he looks straight into the camera, and says very seriously, “Because it will make you feel good. I promise. After an orgasm like the one you probably just had?”

Jean frowns; but he doesn’t have the energy to even think of denying it. That doesn’t mean he can’t deny it in text, though.

JK says: you seem pretty confident.

To Jean’s chagrin, M actually laughs, and points at the camera.

“That’s because I’m good at what I do,” he retorts. There’s something about the way he says it, though, that isn’t cocky. It’s just a fact. “And you wouldn’t still be here if you were bored. Now, are you going to do what I said?”

Jean feels himself tremble, and suddenly realizes how tired he is, but also, how much he wants to obey.

JK says: yeah.

And there are those golden words again: _“Good boy.”_

JK says: i will.

M tells Jean his camming schedule, and invites him to another private show with voyeurs he’s putting on for a slightly discounted price.

“When you get the bill,” he adds, raising an eyebrow, “then you can decide if you want another private, just you and I. Okay?”

JK: okay.

He smiles. “Thanks, Jean. That was a great way to end my night. Good night.”

Jean smiles despite himself, and for the first time, he wishes M could see him.

“‘Night,” he replies softly, feeling a little silly that he’s saying goodnight to a cam boy he just paid a great deal of money to watch.

But it feels good, and isn’t that the point of it all?

Jean shuts off his computer, not even wanting to know how much he just spent, but then figures it was actually the best use for it since he hasn’t enjoyed anything this much since moving to Sina. He could probably watch FreckledBod—or, M, as Jean has been told to call him—for hours and not get bored.

And without a single ounce of hesitance, he does exactly as he was instructed to, and sleeps better than he has in nearly a year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments would be GREATLY appreciated at this juncture. I worked for a long time on this chapter, and I have a pretty good idea of where this fic is going. I'd _really_ appreciate input, concrit, whatever you feel like giving!  <3


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